The Maine Massacre ac-7

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "So?" Janet asked. "You've heard all I have to say. Isn't it time you took yourself away?"

  "You also tried to kill Jeremy," the commissaris said. "And this time you made the effort yourself. Wasn't Reggie available that day?"

  De Gier was also in the sun, but he couldn't move out of its glaring light. The sergeant was perched on a rock behind the mansion's back porch. He had to be careful to stay out of Janet's sight-and out of Reggie's sight. He hadn't seen Reggie when he'd left the sheriff's cruiser and made his way through the cedar bushes along die shore. He had heard Reggie. The man was splitting wood somewhere close by. He couldn't hear him now.

  "Reggie," Janet said. "Certainly he was available."

  "Didn't he try, Mrs. Wash?"

  Janet sat up a little straighter. "Yes, once. He made it to the island but was stopped by the dogs. Jeremy let him go. Our hermit can be a perfect idiot at times. He hasn't even learned from his animals. Animals kill what they catch."

  "I see. But why did you say that Reggie was driving your car when the accident happened? You were at the wheel, weren't you? Suzanne saw you."

  "Suzanne!" Janet waved the name away as if it were an insect. "I said Reggie was at the wheel because Reggie should have been at the wheel. But Reggie still minks of excuses whenever I mention Jeremy. I believe Reggie likes the man." She laughed shortly. "But Reggie will listen to me. I am not giving in. Not to you either. You know that now, don't you?"

  The commissaris muttered his agreement. "Indeed. How did you manage to find such a good man, Mrs. Wash?"

  Janet giggled. "Through a magazine. One of the day laborers once left a magazine and I looked through it. It was called The Mercenary, and it was filled with stories about tough men and what they had done in the wars and what they were doing now in private armies, serving sheiks and princes in out-of-the-way places. There were some advertisements too, and one of them caught my attention. It went something like mis: Vietnam veteran. Light weapons and unarmed combat. Guerrilla operations specialist. Officer rank. Interested in country work of any description. Serious offers only. Details. Reggie. And a telephone number. I telephoned, we had a nice chat, and he flew in the next day. He has never left."

  The sheriff was still listening. De Gier wasn't. He had moved to the edge of his rock when he heard the snow crackle and he was crouching down near his radio, although there was little point in being furtive. Reggie was only a few yards away, on the next rock.

  "Hello," Reggie said.

  "Hello."

  "Listening to the radio, are you? Who is she talking to? To your friend the commissioner?"

  "She is."

  "She is talking a lot, isn't she? Your friend is very clever. But you are not. You are in my way, sergeant."

  De Gier got up and slipped out of his heavy coat. "Can I choose my own accident?"

  "No. The others couldn't either. Your body will go into the bay, and it will stay in the bay."

  De Gier flexed his muscles and controlled his breathing. Reggie wasn't armed. "Do a good job this time, Reggie. Mary Brewer's corpse was found. So was her boat. You've been careless with the evidence."

  Reggie grinned. "You're a fool, sergeant. I gave you fair warning when I shot the tail off your hat. I should have shot you in the chest, but Janet told me to be subtle. She should have listened to me. It doesn't do to be subtle with woodchucks."

  Reggie jumped and de Gier fell over sideways, extending a leg for the big man to trip over. Reggie fell but rolled over and came again.

  "Madam," the commissaris pleaded. "I do advise you to take my proposition seriously. You can still save yourself a lot of really bad trouble."

  He leaned a little further forward and his cane slipped out of the rug. He pulled it back with too much force, and the handle came up and knocked the microphone from under his lapel. The microphone fell and dangled on its cord. Janet stared at it. Then she stopped staring, got up slowly^ and snatched. The commissaris thought she aimed for the microphone and brought up a defensive hand. But Janet had grabbed his cane and raised it.

  "Help!" the commissaris said quietly.

  "Shit," the sheriff said. He started the cruiser and moved his automatic shift. The rear wheels of the cruiser spun on the ice in the dip of the path. "SHIT!" the sheriff shouted and got out of the car and began to run toward the house.

  When Reggie came again de Gier was more careful. He had left his rock and jumped down onto the ledge, where the beach met the bay. Reggie rushed straight at the sergeant, pretending to aim for his chest but brought up his hand at the last moment, with two stiff fingers pointed at de Gier's eyes. De Gier moved his head, grabbed Reggie's sleeves, and pushed him to the side, pivoting Reggie's body on his own leg. The sergeant's flat hand came down as Reggie slipped off his leg. The hand crushed Reggie's nose. De Gier stepped back. Reggie fell but jumped up and came again. His punch made contact, but the sergeant veered with it and grabbed Reggie's wrist. The sergeant didn't use the restraint he had been taught by his instructors. His fingers pressed on, and Reggie's wrist snapped back and broke. Reggie staggered back until his heels found some support against the rock. He pushed himself off the rock with his good arm and kicked. De Gier swayed slightly, waited for Reggie's foot to reach the top of its curve, caught the foot and pushed it up. Reggie's other foot slipped on the ice and he smashed back against the rock, hitting it with the back of his skull. He crumpled and slid down. Reggie's eyes broke as de Gier bent down to peer into his face.

  De Gier ran too. He reached the porch when the sheriff reached the front door. They found the commissaris behind one of the woodstoves, legs wide apart, ready to jump one way or another. Janet was on the other side of the stove, brandishing the cane. The commissaris had lost his glasses, and he bled from a cut on his cheek.

  The sergeant grabbed the cane and twisted it out of Janet's hand. Janet screamed and went on screaming until the sheriff slapped her face. The sheriff pushed her roughly into a chair. De Gier picked up the commissaris' glasses and gave them to his chief. "Sorry, sir. Reggie found me on the beach and we fought. I killed him."

  "You killed him?" Janet screamed. The sheriff raised his hand. "Shut up."

  Janet's eyes opened wide and closed. "Little men," she mumbled. "Little men. Reggie was right. They are like woodchucks, tunneling and prying. Destroying what others try to build. How can we kill them all when there are so many? Reggie got some, but there are too many left. And only me on this side. Only me."

  She began to cry.

  "I killed him," de Gier said quietly to a potted palm. "I've never killed a man before."

  The commissaris limped to the sergeant, leaning on his stick. He put a hand on de Gier's sleeve.

  "Rinus."

  De Gier's eyes had closed. He turned toward the commissaris, but his legs were giving way. His hands grabbed the palm and pulled it to the floor. His knees buckled and he fell with the palm.

  22

  De Gier had been asleep, but a squirrel gliding down the steep roof had waked him up, and he now struggled to stay awake. An almost unnaturally white light was streaming through a small pane of glass set in the whitewashed ceiling, and sharp shadows played on the wall at the foot of the bed. A branch of a pine danced slowly on the plaster, each needle exactly silhouetted. The squirrel came back, its tiny feet pattering and scratching on the frozen snow. The night was so quiet that he could hear its silence. The sergeant's stomach glowed, and his skin was pleasantly warm and alive.

  "Ah…" This was very good indeed. His whispered exclamation faded away in the large room.

  "What?"

  "Nothing, a squirrel."

  The girl snuggled into his arm. "Go to sleep, Rinus. You have a long trip ahead of you."

  "Yes. I am asleep."

  She sat up. "You are not. Okay, I'll be awake with you. Would you like some tea?"

  "No thank you."

  Her finger followed his mustache. "You still don't want me to do anything for you, do you? You're not alone now. I'l
l go down and make tea and bring it back. I bought some Dutch cheese in the city and crackers. We can have a midnight snack."

  He looked at his watch. "It isn't midnight."

  "Oh, don't be so difficult. Are you pleased to go back?"

  "A little."

  "Will you miss me?"

  He stroked her hair. He wanted her to go back to sleep. He wanted to look at the flowing pine needles on the wail.

  "I can come over to Amsterdam. Would you like me to stay with you for a while?"

  A cloud passed the moon and the needles became blurted, then disappeared. He sat up and lit a cigarette. She took it away from him and he lit another.

  "Madelin," he said patiently. "Don't come to Amsterdam. And if you do, do not come to see me. Perhaps I am a romantic figure to you here, but it is different over there. I live in an apartment the size of this bedroom, and it is divided into two rooms, a hall, a kitchen, and a shower. My balcony is two feet square and its only decoration right now will be a concrete flowerpot the size of a bucket, filled with gray mud."

  "In the spring," she said. "I'll come in the spring."

  "In the spring the place will still be too small. I have no furniture but a bed and one chair. My table is a board that hinges off the wall. If Tabriz is in the kitchen I have to wait for her to get out before I can go in."

  Her breast touched his arm. "Who is Tabriz?"

  "A nine-pound cat that looks as if she weighs twenty pounds, but the difference is hair. She has seven main colors and a thousand shades in between. The colors don't blend, and her one eye looks the wrong way. She is the ugliest cat you've ever seen."

  "I like cats."

  De Gier turned on his side and put the tip of his finger on the girl's small straight nose. He pressed lightly and it flattened out a little. "Madelin. I am a sergeant in die Amsterdam Municipal Police. I earn tuppence halfpenny a month, and the halfpenny is kept by the police for a fund. I don't have a car but ride a bicycle that is so decrepit it won't hold a passenger. I use public transport and spend an hour each day waiting for the bus and the streetcar. Even the patrol car I drive is dented. I am a plainclothes cop and when I walk around the city I am just another shadow."

  "Do you mind?"

  "No. I don't mind."

  "If you do you can stay here. I'd like you to stay here. Father will retire and I don't plan to run the business. Real estate is easy."

  "No."

  "You could be about all day. We'll have a cleric to take care of the paperwork. The busy season only lasts a few months. The rest of the year you'll be free to wander and read and do whatever you like. The fox wasn't joking when he said that he wants to make you an honorary member. You could join some of our experiments, or think up your own and we would join you. The sheriff likes you."

  De Gier laughed. "Will you make him a member too?"

  "Why not?"

  "No."

  She giggled. "You don't want the job because you dislike my father. But he did help. He gave your commissioner a check for sixty-five thousand dollars yesterday. Maybe you don't like him, but the business is worthwhile, a small but profitable line. He's always saying that, and he's right."

  De Gier grunted. "The house was appraised at ninety, and the commissaris threw in the car."

  She shrugged. "Yes, under ideal circumstances, but the cape has a bad name now. It won't be so easy to talk anybody into living there."

  She lay down and pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Sixty-five wasn't a bad price. Your commissaris drove a hard bargain, and if father hadn't felt guilty he wouldn't have given in. He'll be lucky if he can sell at that price. Did I tell you that I have news of Janet?"

  "No."

  "I spoke to a psychiatrist who works at the state mental hospital. Psychiatrists aren't supposed to discuss their patients, but he's a good friend. Janet is behaving very crazily, and there's no doubt that she'll be declared incurably insane and moved to a private clinic in Massachusetts.

  Shame."

  "Shame? That horrible woman?"

  "I was thinking about your commissioner. The cut on his cheek still shows. It must have been an awful scene when she was chasing him around her porch. Good thing you were around."

  "He would have got away. He's been chased before. Even by a bulldozer. He's always been able to outwit the enemy."

  "Did he outwit the bulldozer?"

  "He had some help," de Gier admitted.

  "You?"

  "No. Another bulldozer."

  'Tell me."

  "Not now, Madelin. I am almost asleep. Let's stay this way."

  She bit his ear and he squeaked with pain.

  "So you do hurt, do you? In spite of all your damned cool. Is there nothing I can do for you? Don't you have some secret wish I can fulfill?"

  He looked at the telephone on the floor near the bed. "Yes, I do have a wish."

  "I'll do it." She was sitting up again and her hair brushed into his face.

  "I'd like to make a phone call to Amsterdam."

  She sighed. "Go ahead. The Dutch are a stolid, small-minded race. Isn't that what Janet told your commissaris?"

  De Gier had finished dialing.

  "Police headquarters."

  "Hello, dear."

  "Is that you, sergeant?" the female constable asked. "I haven't heard your voice in weeks. Are you in the building?"

  "No, I am outside. Can you put me through to Adjutant Grijpstra please?"

  "Sure. Bring me a candy bar when you come in. Bitter sweet. I'll pay you."

  "Tomorrow. I can't come in today."

  "Don't forget. I'll connect you now."

  "Grijpstra," a deep voice said gruffly.

  "Morning. Have you had coffee yet?"

  "De Gier! Where are you?"

  "Jameson, Maine, U.S.A."

  "Still there? When will you be back? How is the commissaris? You've been away two full weeks, you know. What's keeping you?"

  "We'll be back tomorrow. The commissaris is reasonably well. He was limping badly, but he has spent the last few days in his sister's bath."

  "So what have you been doing?"

  "Waiting mostly. It took him a while to sell his sister's house. Couldn't get the right price, but it's all done now. I helped pack the chinaware yesterday, Mrs. Opdijk has a collection, including some truly marvelous items. You should have been here; it was a job you would have cherished. There was a pink rooster and some guinea pigs with hats on, and a snuffbox with an angel on top, holding a flag, and two porcelain frogs singing to each other on a green shell and…"

  "Who's paying for this call?"

  Madelin grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you speak English?"

  "A little," Grijpstra said and sighed. "A little, miss. What can I do for you? Are you with the sergeant?"

  "I am very much with the sergeant. Who are you, sir?"

  "Detective Adjutant Grijpstra, Amsterdam police headquarters. Are you in any trouble?"

  "I should hope not." Madelin giggled. Grijpstra peered into his telephone, studying the giggle. It was low, self-conscious, and somewhat seductive.

  "I'll give you back to the sergeant now."

  "Grijpstra?" de Gier asked nervously.

  "Still here. And who was that, pray? That wasn't a porcelain frog, was it?"

  "No, a friend."

  "Wait!" Grijpstra shouted and looked at his watch. "It's nine-fifteen here. It must be around three o'clock at your end. Three in the morning. You are in bed!"

  "In a way."

  "In a way," Grijpstra repeated. "So that's what you are doing. Do you know how busy we've been? I've spent a whole week working on an atomic warfare professor. A Polish gentleman. Came here for a congress and suddenly, whoof, gone. A tremendous stink. Kidnapped, of course. Everybody blaming everybody. Even our very own Secret Service woke up and began to sniff around."

  "Did you find hintf"

  "Eventually. We traced him to a nightclub. He got drunk mere and left.
Then we traced him to some illegal after-hours porno joint. He got drunker there and left."

  "Usual thing?"

  "Sure, but try and tell that to a Secret Service vice admiral or to an East Block ambassador. We dragged the canals and found him. The professor tried to piss into a canal and reeled right in. Drowned, sunk, and got himself attached to at least three dumped bicycles. He would have popped up again, but bowel gas takes a few days to form. We had every detective in the force on the job plus all sorts of extra help. If you'd been here you could have been of use. But you weren't here. Now tell me, Rinus, what have you been doing?"

  "I killed a man."

  The telephone was quiet.

  "You there, Grijpstra?"

  "Yes. You wouldn't joke about killing a man. What happened? Are you in the clear?"

  "Yes. Self-defense and the man was crazy. A deranged gardener with combat experience in the Vietnam jungle. I mink he took me for a woodchuck."

  "What's a woodchuck?"

  "I haven't found out yet. Small, a rodent, eats shoots and buds. Got big teeth, slightly protruding."

  "So you did work," Grijpstra said. "I am sorry. I might have known. You were with the local police, weren't you?"

  "Yes. How are Tabriz and the flat?"

  "All right. Cardozo moved into your apartment. I didn't have time to go there every day to feed Tabriz, and Cardozo gets tired of living with his parents sometimes."

  "Didn't mess the place up, did he?"

  "No, I checked. He did very well. All right, Cardozo, don't pull faces at me. I won't tell the sergeant about the tea on the wallpaper and the kitchen fire and the holes in the carpet."

  "Give Cardozo my regards. See you tomorrow."

  "Dutch is a terrible language," Madelin said and patted his chest. "You sounded like you were throwing up. The only word I caught was 'woodchuck.'"

  "There is no Dutch for woodchuck, I think. We don't have them in our woods."

  "Kiss me, Rinus."